Exposed (14 page)

The garage door opened automatically.

Sydney looked up to the porch to find Jontae standing on the steps pointing something at them, probably the garage-door opener. She waved at her friend, then hustled out of the SUV, grabbing her camera case, laptop and purse.

“So you’re sure they’re after me?” she asked Frank as they walked across the drive, the garage door closing behind them.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Your house exploded.”

Jontae stood in the middle of the steps, blocking their path. One hand on her hips, she had the other, still clutching the garage-door opener, straight out like a running back stiff-arming a linebacker. “What do you mean, her house exploded?”

The woman on the porch was tinier than Sydney—if that was even possible. From the look of her, there was a whole lot of attitude wrapped up in that little package, and right now it was all focused on him.

Sydney stepped in front of him and hugged her friend. “Jontae, meet U.S. Deputy Marshal, Frank Castello. Frank, this is my oldest friend, Jontae.”

“What do you mean, her house exploded?” Jontae repeated, eyeing him over Sydney’s shoulder.

“I didn’t blow it up,” Frank said, holding up his hands like a criminal under arrest. Leaning to the side he checked for any stopped traffic on the street in front of the house.

“Maybe we could discuss this inside?” Sydney said, taking his hint that they were in danger out in the open. She grabbed her friend by the shoulders and steered her through the backdoor.

Frank followed and locked the door behind them. Pulling out his phone, he selected the right number as he moved pas the two women to the front of the house, which had been converted into a store full of clothes hanging in antique armoires that filled every wall, and chests with jewelry and hat stands displaying more female doodads he couldn’t even begin to name. The front door, where the sign had already been flipped to
closed
, was locked.

“Hey, Castello. Ain’t heard from y’all since deer season. What’s up?” the southern voice said on the other end of his phone.

“Charlie, I need a favor.”

“Anything for y’all. You just name it.”

“I need a car. Old. No GPS tracking, clean plates. Nothing traceable back to you or me.”

“Got a Caddy and an SUV.”

“Nothing government issue-looking.”

“Caddy it is. Pick up or delivery?” All good-old-boy humor had left Charlie’s voice.

“Delivery.” He rattled off the address. Charlie promised to have it at the store in thirty minutes, and they disconnected.

Charlie MacGregor had been a key witness years back in bringing down a car theft and chop-shop ring based in the SE part of the state, with ties into West Virginia and Kentucky. Frank and Pete had been assigned his protection. Charlie was a hard case, he hadn’t wanted WitSec protection. Said he could protect what was left of his family. He just wanted to bring down the men who’d killed two of his seven sons. After the trial, they’d relocated him and his family to Columbus, and helped him open an auto repair store on the south side.

Returning to the kitchen, Frank turned off every light as he went.

“What does he think he’s doing, just walking through my place?” Jontae had stopped halfway through the kitchen, both arms crossed in front of her, suddenly imitating a stone statue. “Is he planning to blow up my place, too?”

“
He
didn’t blow up anything,” Sydney said, standing inches from her friend. “In fact, he’s the one that not only gave me a place to stay last night after the whole mess went down, but probably just saved my life tonight.”

Jontae suddenly shifted from angry statue to concerned friend, grabbing Sydney by her arms, searching her from head to toe for injuries. “Oh, God. Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine, really.” Sydney gave her a reassuring smile. He suspected it was more for her friend’s sake than because she was really okay. Her fingers had shaken so bad earlier she almost couldn’t shut down her GPS in the car.

“Then you want to tell me why there’s blood on your pants?” Jontae gave a nod towards Sydney’s leg.

Frank immediately dropped to his knee in front of Sydney, running his hands over her leg. “I don’t see any cuts on your jeans. This all looks like dried blood.”

“That’s because it’s yours,” Sydney said, leaning to the side and staring at his thigh.

He followed her gaze to see what had her attention. A four- to five-inch tear in his jeans was definitely caked in blood. “Damn. Must’ve happened when I tackled you out of the way of the car.”

“How bad is it?” Sydney asked as he stood up.

He gave a slight shrug. “Not as bad as getting shot.”

She squatted in front of him, and peeled back the edge of the ripped denim. He hissed in his breath as the caked blood pulled at the spot that suddenly throbbed more than when the car hit him.

“Sorry,” she said, peeking up at him. “It’s still bleeding. I think it needs stitches.”

“No hospital.”

“Because?”

“Can’t risk the police or anyone looking for accident or hit-and-run victims to find us.”

“Sydney? What is going on?” Jontae asked from beside him.

“J, I’ll tell you everything I know, I promise, but I think we need to stop this bleeding on Frank’s leg first.”

The two women stared at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. Frank was fascinated.

“Okay,” the smaller woman said, then pointed to him. “Take off your jeans, Marshal.”

He took a step back. “I don’t think so.”

“Look. You either drop those pants so my friend can figure out how to stop your bleeding, or I’m going to call the police,” she said reaching for her phone.

“Okay. No police,” he said, reaching for his belt buckle.

Jontae bustled out of the kitchen.

Frank kicked off his boots, then unsnapped the top button on his jeans. He looked up to see Sydney watching him. “You could turn around.”

She grinned. “No. Don’t think so. I’ve never had a man strip in a kitchen for me before.”

“Trust me, seeing a nearly middle-aged man take off his pants isn’t sexy,” he said, trying not to think of the word
strip
in front of her. He’d had enough trouble not kissing her back in the car. Right now he was glad he’d worn boxers instead of tightie-whities.

“Oh, you’d be surprised how sexy this is,” she said, humor lacing her words.

He got the top of his jeans over his hips, but had to stop when he reached the cut on his thigh.

“Want me to help?” Sydney asked reaching for him.

“No. I can get it.” The last thing he needed was her helping him out of his pants. There was something way too intimate in that.

She stepped away to the sink. “Okay, I’ll get some water to clean it.”

“Why?” he asked as he pulled the jeans the rest of the way off, trying not to moan when the blood clotted to his skin ripped open again.

“So she can see how bad it is and keep down the infection,” Jontae said returning with some towels and a sewing basket.

“You aren’t sewing me up,” he said, clutching his jeans in front of him like some shield against the two tiny females.

“Wasn’t planning to, Mr. Marshal,” Jontae said. She draped the towel over one of the mismatched, overstuffed chairs surrounding the oval table in her kitchen. “I’m gonna sew up your pants. Sydney’s taking care of your bleeding self. Now sit.”

Outnumbered, he sat and relinquished the hold on his jeans to the fashion designer/store owner.

With a grin she tossed another towel on his lap and headed out of his sight.

“Where are you going with those?” he called after her.

“Got to wash and dry them. I’m not handling bloody pants, not even for my best friend.”

A snicker came from the area of the sink.

“Washcloths are under the sink, Sydney,” Jontae said from somewhere down below.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Sydney said, bringing a bowel of water and a pink wash cloth to the table.

She pulled up another chair and sat. After she soaked the washcloth in water and wrung it out, she leaned in, staring at him with those purple eyes of hers. “I’ll try not to hurt you too much.”

“Appreciate it,” he managed past the lump in his throat at her tender words.

She started on the wound itself, pressing the cloth on the cut.

Hissing, he sucked in his breath.

“I’m surprised it didn’t hurt in the car,” she said, rinsing the cloth and repeating the pressing motion. This time he managed to not make any noise.

Good for him. Maybe he wasn’t going to be a wimp in front of her after all.

“Probably the adrenaline.”

“Adrenaline?”

“Yeah, Sami says it’s the normal reaction to the body’s fight or flight reflex when you’re in a dangerous situation. The hormone acts like a pain killer.” Which he wish he had right now.

“So you didn’t feel any pain when you were shot?” she asked, nodding to the brace on his left leg.

“No. I felt that. Probably because one bullet went through my ACL and my knee twisted. Couldn’t walk much. Had to lean on someone to help me get out of the hotel and try not to get shot again.”

Stomping sounded below them. A moment later Jontae stepped back into the kitchen. “Okay, the jeans are in the dryer. Now you two are going to tell me what’s going on.” She snagged a bottle of vodka from the cabinet, along with two shot glasses. Pulling up another chair, she sat down and poured the glasses full and set one in front of him. Then she handed the bottle to Sydney. “Pour some of this on the cut. It’ll keep it from getting infected.”

“Sorry,” Sydney said, bringing the bottle towards his leg.

He gripped the sides of the chair and nodded. Sydney poured.

Fire burned through his leg, but he managed to do little more than suck in air again.

“I’m impressed,” Sydney’s friend said, then sipped on her drink. “You do that to any man I’ve ever dated and they’d be all crying for their mamas.”

Sydney dabbed at the spot some more, this time with a dry towel. Shaking her head, she looked up at Frank, compassion in her eyes. “It’s still bleeding. I really think it needs to be closed.”

It was his turn to shake his head. “I’m not risking a hospital visit. Not until we have some idea who is after you, and what is going on.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to stitch it closed,” Jontae said, with a little more enthusiasm than he liked. She grinned at him and held up two spools of thread. “Pink or purple silk?”

* * * * *

The street was quiet. The residents of all the neat houses either out for the night or all tucked in their beds, thinking all was safe in their world.

A slow smile slid over his face.

He’d love to be here to watch them when someone finally called the police about the abandoned car.

Maybe the smell would attract attention. A man walking his dog. The dog barking at the car, drawing his master’s attention.

The patrol car would run the plates. That would get everyone excited. Multiple vehicles would arrive. Someone would pop the trunk.

That’s when the fun would really start.

He turned up the sound on the police radio. No one had reported the hit-and-run outside the restaurant less than a few miles away. Hitting the scan button, he tried to pick up the frequencies of the suburban police force. No emergency units or police had been sent to the area.

Dammit. The man had been too fast for a head-on collision, but he knew he’d hit them with the corner of the car. Should’ve been enough force to cause some damage.

He glanced at his phone. The old man would want an update.

First things first. He parked the car in front of his black sedan. Climbed out, popped the trunk lock and then locked the doors, the keys still in the ignition. He walked around to the rear and lifted the trunk lid. Lifting his gun with the silencer attached, he shot two more rounds directly into the detective’s chest, just in case the first two he’d put in his head earlier in the evening hadn’t done the trick.

No loose ends.

He closed the trunk and went to his own car.

Driving slowly, he left the quiet little neighborhood.

He had prey to find.

Hitting the dial on his phone, he waited for the man on the other end to answer.

“Sir?” the voice sounded shaky. It always did when his marker was called in.

“I have a license plate number I need you to run,” he said without small talk. He rattled off the number. “Be sure not to leave a trail for someone to see you were looking.”

“Yes, sir. I should have it for you in a few hours.”

“Good. I also need you to put a trace on a phone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sydney Peele.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The stone-cold look on Frank’s face as Jontae asked him which color silk he wanted used to close his wound was almost too funny. Sydney fought back the laughter that threatened to burst out of her at the pair.

“You need stitches,” her friend said.

“You are not sewing me up with those.” The rumble in his voice had gone hard.

“What’s the matter? Afraid someone will think you’re a sissy for having pretty colors on your leg?”

“You aren’t doing it.”

“We’ve got to close that up. Otherwise you’re going to continue to bleed all over my floor.”

“Not happening.”

Whoops. He’d gone to two-word caveman mode again. Not a good sign.

Jontae set the thread spools down and plopped one hand on her hip to come almost nose-to-nose with him. “What’s the matter? Big, bad Marshal afraid of a little pain?”

“Infection.”

They were down to one word. Next it would be one syllable.

Wonder if he could communicate with grunts?

“Enough, you two.” Sydney plopped the washcloth back into the bowl and reached for her purse. “Jontae’s right. We have to close this up,” she said to Frank as she rummaged through her bag for the item she needed. Then she focused on her friend, who was looking decidedly cocky. “Frank doesn’t want stitches, he doesn’t have to have them.”

He snorted his approval beside her.